Hell of a Deal, A Supernatural Satire

Chapter 1

In January of 1967 Alfred Smith, then 29, lived in Los Angeles, California where he tried like hell to break into the motion picture business. He was not welcome. It was then that Smith produced his first real cinematic brainstorm.

After hearing word of the historic Human Be-In, the call to Hippiedom up in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district, Al Smith concluded that he finally had something to exploit. The Hippies were colorful, musical, and they liked to have a lot of sex. The story could come later.

Smith borrowed enough money and 16mm color film stock to begin production. He teamed up with Francois Lumière, a recent acquaintance of his who attended UCLA’s film program and therefore had access to a camera.

Francois, whom Al renamed Frank, was French and twenty, but he spoke fluent English. It was never clear if Lumière was in the country legally or not.

Haight-Ashbury overflowed with flower power that spring. Hundreds of thousands of kids descended onto the marijuana and acid capital of the world. By June the sidewalks and alleys were littered with new arrivals in various modes of transcendence. The Summer of Love had begun.

Al Smith drove up to San Francisco with Lumière and his Bolex camera. They also recruited a second kid to assist. Al held about five hundred dollars, and he had no idea what he was doing.

Fate smiled upon him anyway. Smith caught the wave, the vibe, karma, kismet, whatever they were calling it that year.

On that first morning of the production Smith decided that they would target Hippie Hill and catch the day’s free concert. His skeleton crew lugged a tripod, a light meter, film magazines and the Bolex up Haight Street toward Golden Gate Park. Their spirits energized, their minds were full of wonder.

Lumière asked, Do you want me to use the tripod? Or just go handheld like a documentary? Cinéma verité?

Smith said, I want usable footage. We only got so much film, Frank.

Tripod, then.

Tripod.

Al reconnoitered the sidewalk. Many strange ambassadors of the counterculture passed them by along the walkway. Paisley, flowers, bell bottoms, necklaces, hair down to their midsections, Smith tallied his ticket sales before even the first frame captured the sunlight.

You know what we’re looking for, don’t you? Frank?

No. The Frenchman gawked innocently as they floated through the Hippie crowds.

Beautiful girls.

Lumière nodded. I’m cool with that.

And if we’re lucky, we’ll get in on some of that free love. Huh? Al elbowed Lumière.

His boys laughed, and they snapped to attentiveness. The would-be filmmakers crossed over into Golden Gate Park. Artificial thunder rolled across the hillside, from the faraway bashing of drums amplified over a public address system.

Groups of teenagers strolled randomly done up with painted faces, wigs and pets. Acrobats twirled and flipped. A pair of stilt-walkers glided by in character as clowns. A lone casualty of the day lay under a bush twitching involuntarily, this the result of a nasty concoction known as S.T.P.

A circle of amateur drummers had gathered on a grassy meadow, but not affiliated with the band somewhere up on a stage. Congas and bongos attracted other musicians with tambourines and acoustic guitars. One frenetic boy banged an overturned five-gallon paint bucket. Their drum circle churned frantically, oblivious to the rest of the world. Surrounding these drummers, dozens of dancers flailed about in a stoned haze.

Smith spotted a petite young girl, a brunette about nineteen. She wore a tan suede looking jacket. Her long black hair whipped across her shoulders. She danced with her own style, not quite like the other Hippies. There was something choreographed in her steps and her posture. Her eyes remained wide open, unlike the others, and her feet repeated a pattern as if she’d done this many times before today.

Come on. Right here! Al pointed his finger at the drum circle.

Smith’s two-man crew quickly assembled the tripod for the shot. They had no audio devices, and so they would film without sound.

Francois and his borrowed Bolex were ready to fire. How do you want it, Al?

Just make it beautiful. And get that girl. Smith pointed at the dancing brunette in suede, who then noticed him and his crew.

The girl froze in place, momentarily shaken. She then strode toward them, curious. Her torso was slender and taut, and she had taken a keen interest in their activity.

Oh shit! She saw me. Cut! Al turned about to scout in the opposite direction, but also to confuse the girl in the hope that she would leave them alone. His boys tried to appear nonchalant.

Excuse me? The girl with the black hair and the tan jacket stepped closer. Excuse me? Why are you filming us?

Lumière shrugged, and he indicated for her to talk to Smith.

The girl circled around the camera, and she stopped beside Al. Hello?

Smith, frustrated, sprang back. Can I help you?

Can you help me? Why are you filming these people?

Why? It’s a free country, right?

Her dark brown eyes widened. Are you from the government?

Government? No. We’re independent filmmakers. Smith noticed the intricate painted flowers and the geometric shapes across the girl’s light tan deerskin jacket. She wore moccasins, which were for some reason in style. Al was captivated however by her young, smooth, innocent face.

The girl seemed curious but cautious. She stared into Al’s eyes with determination. These people are not some kind of fish tank or a zoo for your amusement.

Smith wondered if he was supposed to feel insulted now. I don’t see your point.

She furrowed her eyebrows. You did not ask them for their permission, if they want to be included in your filming. You certainly did not ask my permission. She nodded her head for emphasis secure in her assertions.

Smith exhaled, and he wanted to be rid of her, but not really. Well the truth is, he said, I thought you looked very pretty dancing there, and I wanted to capture that. Now, if I had gone over and interrupted the song to ask permission, wouldn’t that have been a bummer?

I suppose. The girl seemed slightly conflicted but undeterred.

You see? Al pointed at the camera. We’re trying to capture the natural scene. If we alert everyone we’re filming first, it won’t be natural. Right?

That is true, she said, but I still think that there are issues here. Her tone softened, and she dug for the right combination of words. The people are tired of tourists coming in and photographing them and pointing at us as if we were on display. One old white woman even called us a ‘freak show.’

I see. Al considered a moment, and it struck him. Would you like to go get some lunch, and talk about this some more?

Francois shot a glance up at Smith, perplexed. Lumière returned to his viewfinder, and he panned with a group of teenagers who were smoking cannabis. He swiftly rolled the camera, capturing the smoke as it exhaled and released up into the sky. This shot would help sell the film to the masses.

The black-haired girl considered Smith’s offer. There is a vegetarian café on Clayton Street which I like.

Vegetarian? Al was clearly not a fan.

Is that a problem?

No. He shrugged. Let’s go.

Lumière faked a cough. Al? Al? I thought we were filming today?

Excuse me. One minute. Smith pulled Francois aside and out of the girl’s hearing range. Frank, I’m gonna go get lunch. I want you to keep looking. Smith whispered covertly, I want girls with their tops off, or a police riot! That’s it. Sex and violence. Don’t waste the film otherwise.

Lumière jerked in recognition. Sex and violence?

Money in the bank. Smith turned to face the brunette, and he grinned. I’ll catch up later.

Lumière seemed annoyed momentarily, then free. He scoped out the terrain with renewed vigor.

Smith escorted the girl in the deerskin jacket out of Golden Gate Park and up the sidewalk. She searched for a street sign, and they turned the corner.

There’s a scientific theory that might interest you, Al said.

About what?

It’s about observation. Once you observe a phenomenon, it says the observer changes the phenomenon. I read that in a magazine.

The girl considered for a few steps. So, even if you hide your camera, it would still affect the people you film?

That’s an interesting question. I don’t really know.

The brunette girl pointed across the avenue at a dingy glass storefront that featured a hand-painted sign above the door. There it is.

When the traffic stopped, Al and the girl crossed Clayton, and they entered The Magic Dragon Café.

Smith was suspicious. He doubted the place could pass a health inspection. He was even less impressed with the menu’s offerings of Excitable Eggplant, Shared Chard, Proletarian Peas and Carrots or the Radical Risk-Free Rice. Smith’s mouth curled and sneered. I guess I’ll try the rice.

It’s very tasty. The girl peeked over curiously from behind her dog-eared menu. When Smith glanced back, she quickly ducked down behind the menu again.

Okay.

Sitting across from one another, they peeked at each others faces. Smith smiled.

The girl glanced up emotionlessly. I still think the polite thing to do is ask the people if they want to participate in your art.

Smith weighed the idea. But, what if that ruins it? Then there’s no art.

It doesn’t matter, she said. The people should have a say how their images are used. There are a lot more of them than you.

All right. Al watched as a long-haired twenty-something guy tossed plates onto their table not even slowing his feet as he passed.

We need napkins, said Smith, but it was too late.

The girl smiled momentarily. She tore into her stir-fried vegetable dish.

Smith jerked uncomfortably in his chair. Now wait a minute! Al’s voice jolted the girl such that she looked up at him. It’s a commonly held assumption that if you’re in public you can be photographed. The photographer has rights too.

She waited silently for Al to finish his thought.

Al tried to assess if he was getting through to her. I mean, there’s a lot of them, but what about the people who see the photography? The audience? There’s a lot of them too. Don’t they have a say?

The girl shrugged. I suppose that it is complicated. She returned to her vegetable plate, and she seemed very hungry.

Al looked for inspiration in the strange murals stretched across the wall up above the painted windowpanes. Well, if we’re all one world, then the viewers need to see all the different kinds of people who are unlike themselves, no? That’s a good thing.

To expand their horizons, she said.

Exactly. Al took in a slow, deep breath. How long have you been a Hippie?

The black haired girl seemed totally blindsided. I am not a Hippie.

You’re not?

I am not hip at all. I do not even know what it means.

What are you doing here, then?

Exploring. She wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

Isn’t that what Hippies do?

I cannot speak for others.

Smith was perplexed. Well, where are you from?

Ontario.

You’re Canadian?

She bobbed and weaved for a second, considering. In a sense.

Is that a metaphysical thing? Smith felt genuinely confused about this girl.

My people are the Ojibwe.

Al snapped back, stunned. No shit? Like Indians?

Yes.

Why did you come to California? Al cocked his head, awaiting a response.

To see with my own eyes if there is a spiritual awakening and a new age of love beginning in the world, as they say.

Al smirked. So you’re here for the love?

Yes.

Groovy.

She laughed out loud. Yes. Love is groovy.

I’m not digging this rice, though. Do you want it?

Yes, please.

Al slid his plate across to the girl. So you’re not a Hippie. You just want the spiritual love awakening?

She paused with her fork just above the plate. Are you being negative?

Not at all. I love love. Love is great. Al smiled, and he wondered how the hell the conversation had come around to this point.

The girl checked left and right. She casually reached into her little deerskin purse. Her petite hand pulled out a couple of small pieces of paper a quarter the size of postage stamps. I was given this.

Carefully, she placed the minuscule paper tabs on the table between them. Her eyes rose to gauge Al’s response.

Al ogled the odd little papers. What is it?

White lightning. From the Acid King himself, the woman said. The purest of the pure.

Smith whispered, LSD?

I do not know what to do with it.

Al leaned forward to inspect the tabs. His curiosity was palpable.

Smith escorted the girl back to his cheap motel room.

As they entered the room together she said, We will need a whole day for the trip to wear off. Can we stay here that long?

Smith nodded. Yeah. It’s my room.

Will your friends come back and interrupt our journey?

They might. But they can go to hell. I got them a room too.

But this one is yours?

Oh yeah.

The girl made her face appear stern. Do not assume that I will have sex with you.

No. Smith didn’t know how to respond. Of course not.

The girl stepped in to accustom herself to the place. She spun back to face Al, and she retrieved the two acid tabs from out of her purse. Carefully she placed one on the tip of her index finger. Have you prepared yourself for this? Spiritually?

Smith eyed the little paper tab, which she dangled before his eyes. I’m always ready.

The girl thought on it a second, and she weighed the responsibility, the life-altering potential of the substance. This is very powerful magic. More powerful than you can imagine.

Banzai, said Smith. That’s Japanese for ‘let’s rock and roll.’

She grinned, and she placed the white tab down onto Smith’s tongue. She located the other tab, and she dropped it into her own mouth. It should take just a little while to unlock the corridors. What should we do now? She smiled innocently.

Oh. I don’t know. Whatever you want to do.

Two hours later, the two huddled together tightly on the motel’s couch. Al could feel things becoming stranger in each passing minute.

The girl’s hand toyed. Her fingers ran along the textured surfaces, feeling the couch, Al’s shirt, his face.

She said, It’s all so beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

You are beautiful too. She gently touched Al’s cheek with her fingertips, and she said, The world is made of beauty, the most dazzling colors. What should we do now? She gulped and swallowed uncomfortably, twisting her mouth about. In the world?

Smith said, Maybe take off our clothes to be free? Take a shower to feel the warm water on our skin?

The girl gazed back directly into Al’s eyes, completely engulfed in the sights and sounds. That is a wonderful idea.

You think so? Al watched her skin shimmer and gleam. Her eyes sparkled with iridescence.

I do. She closed her mouth, and she twisted it about nervously. But I should definitely know the name of the person I am going to do that with. Don’t you think? She bit down on her lip to feign modesty.

Al Smith. My name’s Alfred Smith.

I am Lisa Namid.

Lisa slid off of the couch, and she uncoiled upward on her legs. It means Star Dancer. Lisa straightened up tall, feeling the air with her hands and fingertips. My dodem is Baswenaazhi, the Crane, the maker of echoes!

Lisa Namid spun slowly around in place, and she let her head sway loosely. Her fluid figure pirouetted above Al as he followed her with his eyes.

Al sprang to his feet, his eyes wide and bedazzled. Far out.

Al Smith’s perceptions changed that day, particularly his understanding of love and its importance in his life.

Lisa Namid and Al Smith made it through to the next morning alone together in Al’s motel room behind a locked door. Each felt by then that they knew the other better than they knew anyone else in their lives.

Al lay on the bed, and he watched Lisa’s nakedness as she danced with the fireflies in her mind. She grooved, spot-lit on a sound stage which rotated slowly like a gigantic spinning record player. Light beams ricocheted off of her hair, and flash bulbs popped in Lisa’s eye sockets.

Waawaatesi, waawaatesi, Lisa sang softly her nursery rhyme. Her glowing hands caressed the air gingerly as she pushed them through the pinpoints of light. Lisa turned, and she glimpsed Al smiling back at her from the bed.

Lisa trotted over, toned and proud, and she said, We share a bond now, Alfred Smith.

Al nodded. They shared this connection. Al parted his arms hoping that she would move in toward him again.

Lisa dove in, and they rolled to a stop. Her body felt warm to Al, like a holiday, immersive like a dip in a tropical ocean.

Al’s vision cleared up finally, although strange rhythmic music chattered on somewhere inside of his mind. Al felt a sense of loss. So he squeezed at Lisa Namid’s tight body as she lay between his arms. He thought that they might separate, that they would split up never to see one another again after this day.

Al dreaded the thought that he would lose his new best friend and lover. Terrified that his awakening of emotion was all for naught, Al said, Lisa?

Yes? Her voice shot back crisp and vibrant.

How are you doing now?

I fly with the fireflies. And you?

Al softened his defenses for the first time in many years. Grasping Lisa firmly and fully, Al said, I want to see you again.

Lisa squirmed from Al’s grip, and she twisted about in order to face him. Presenting herself as a matter of fact, she said, I am not invisible!

Al didn’t understand, but then he smiled. I mean I want to marry you.

Lisa’s dark chestnut eyes glowed with knowing satisfaction. Marry?

Al concluded that he was all in and past any point of no return. Yes.

After a pause Lisa said, I will consider your proposal.

Chapter 2

One decade into the new millennium executive producer and C.E.O. Alfred Smith lived in utter dread of the final judgment of the universe.

Seventy-three years old now, Al spent his long days on his treadmill machine. There